It's All In Your Head
by tomhiddlesbitch
Summary: AU- John is the one to jump off of St. Barts instead of Sherlock. John Watson "killed" himself to save his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, and three of his other friends from being killed by master criminal Jim Moriarty. Now Sherlock is left on his own, but will he turn back into the cold, thoughtless, sociopath he was before he met John? Rated M for drug use, later chapters.
1. Jump

They were in St. Bart's; Sherlock was trying to figure out the last piece to Moriarty's puzzle, the final problem. Moriarty was always difficult, but this was different. This was nearing impossible.

His deep thoughts were pierced when John's phone let out an obnoxious ringing. John answered "Hello? Who is this?". There was a short pause before he continued "What? I'm on my way!" John looked like someone had taken all of the air out of him. He turned to Sherlock who had his eye looking in a microscope. "Paramedics, Mrs. Hudson's been shot."

"What, how?" Sherlock said without much inflection in his voice.

"Probably one of the killers you managed to attract. Jesus, she's dying-"John was trembling, his heart racing. His mind immediately turned towards Moriarty and that it had to be his doing. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position hunched over the microscope.

"You go, I'm busy." Sherlock said very calmly. He ceased looking at the microscope lens and looked at a spot on the wall instead. He seemed to be unshaken by the news.

"Busy?" John said incredulously as he paced around the lab.

"Thinking, I need to think." Sherlock didn't move his gaze from on the wall he was staring at.

"Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!"

"She's my landlady." Sherlock seemed almost puzzled as to why John was pressing the matter further.

"She's dying, you _machine_! Solve this," John called over his shoulder to Sherlock as he stormed out of the lab. "You stay here if you want on your own."

"Alone is what I have, alone protects me." Sherlock said keeping his gaze forward.

"No, friends protect people." John advised him as he turned the door handle and walked out into the hall, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

John in a blind panic half walked-half ran down the corridors. His eyes were blurring, he was losing his balance. The shock was setting in, but when he reached the end of the corridor he turned the corner and down the hall he saw a familiar figure. The black suit and short dark hair told him exactly who it was, even if he wasn't fully aware of everything else around him. John felt sick to his stomach. None of that show was real. Moriarty was here and he wanted John.

John quickly turned and sprinted down to where he last remembered Molly was. His head was pounding as he reached the door. He silently prayed that Molly would still be in there; it had been over an hour since he last saw her. He pushed open to door and found her with her head down on a lab desk, just as he had been a little less than five minutes ago. "Molly wake up, I need your help!" John basically yelled at her.

She awoke with a stir. Lost to why John was here and not with Sherlock. "What is it John? What's so important?"

"I need a drug." John ordered.

"What? What kind of drug?" Molly said, obviously confused.

"I need a drug that hides my pulse, and for you to take out some of my blood." John said very confident of his decision.

"No, I am not doing this. I'm not letting you take that. There are too many risks!" she warned him.

"What are the risks?" John said.

"Well, it's a poison, not the best thing to inject into your blood stream. Also hiding your pulse could end up stopping your pulse." She said in an informative tone. "John, this could kill you. Why in your right mind do you need this in the first place?"

John stared at her, a plea in his eyes, trying to find the right words to say. Finally he spoke "Moriarty is coming after me." John was trying to speak through the shock, "I saw him in the corridor. He wants to hold me hostage, like he did in the pool. I have a plan, Molly, but I need you."

Molly nodded her head slowly, warily agreeing to help John. "What's the plan?"

35 minutes later John emerged from the lab without Molly. He wandered back towards the corridor where he first saw Moriarty's slim, suit-clad figure. His nervousness would have been obvious to even the most feeble minded. He reached the corridor and did not see him. He continued back up and down the hallways of the Ward, going over the plan he and Molly had devised only minutes before.

There was a garbage truck outside, in front of the hospital. John was to go to the roof, and inject himself with the drug. Molly had altered the drug to activate in his system approximately 7 minutes after injection. Enough time to let Sherlock find him, enough time for Moriarty to be a drama queen. John was to jump into the garbage can, and make his way onto the floor. Molly had placed a bag of John's blood in the garbage truck in case Sherlock wanted to test the blood on the sidewalk to confirm it was John's. But if all went according to plan, Sherlock wouldn't need to.

John walked with a nervous step. If Moriarty jumped out from behind and captured John, the entire plan would be ruined. Luckily, John turned a corner in the corridor and saw a suit-wearing figure on the opposite end of the hall. He walked a few feet more to ensure that Moriarty had seen him. John quickly turned and started the nerve wracking walk to the top of St. Bart's. He went over the plan at least 15 times in his mind. He was ready to leave Sherlock, and at the same time he was letting his nerves get the best of him. The hospital seemed unfamiliar as he fast-walked thoughtlessly towards the stairwell leading to the roof.

He reached the stairwell and turned around to make sure Moriarty was still following him. He saw a flash of black before turning back and pushing the heavy door open. He was met with an empty stairwell; every movement amplified by echoes bouncing off of the walls. He hauled himself up, step-by-step until he was faced with the heavy metal door that opened to the roof. He waited until he heard the other door at the other end open and could hear Moriarty's slow, dangerous footsteps. He pushed the door open with difficulty, not realizing how heavy the door was.

The sun was blinding his eyes. He walked over to the edge of the building and looked down. He could see the garbage truck patiently waiting for his arrival.

John stared down over the side of the building. 25 floors. A lump formed in his throat. He could feel his hands shaking and his heart beat getting increasingly faster.

He reached into his pocket and felt the needle Molly had just prepared for him. He quickly uncapped the needle and carefully inserted it into his wrist, wincing slightly.

John felt his cell phone get heavy in his pocket, its weight suddenly registering on his senses. He reached inside and took out his phone. He flicked through his contacts until the familiar name appeared on the screen- _Sherlock_. He quickly jammed out a text message.

**Come to the St. Bart's roof.**

**-JW**

The moment he pressed the all too familiar send button, he heard the heavy door open and close once again. John slowly turned around to see Moriarty sending a deceitful grin towards him. His expensive black suit and patent leather shoes sent a chill down John's spine. His high sense in fashion and impeccable taste in clothing made him seem untouchable, a pristine museum piece that mustn't and couldn't be touched.

"I didn't expect to see you here." Moriarty said coolly.

"Here I am." John managed to get out. His nervousness was obvious, especially to someone like Moriarty.

"Here, you are." He made his way towards where John was unmoving, walking in a slow, calm, and collected walk.

"What are you planning to do? Am I your puppet again? Why do you insist on using me in your little games against Sherlock?" John's voice had gained more confidence; demanding that Jim give him an answer.

"Oh John, you're a pawn, nothing more than a middle-man. To me and to Sherlock, you're nothing." Moriarty spit out with venom in his voice. John turned his head away from him. He knew that he was so much more to Sherlock then just a middle-man. He was his friend. His only friend.

"You're wrong."

"He has no friends: never has and he never will. You're just his side-kick. Someone who he can take on his little "missions"." He put air quotes around the word missions, his actions dripping with sarcasm.

Suddenly the door was thrown open and Sherlock stumbled out, "John! Step away from him!" Sherlock called out.

"Do what he says John. Don't want to get hurt." Moriarty teased. "Wait, but you don't want Sherlock to die do you?" he looked at John, whose face radiated terror. "I can see you don't. I have a sniper across the street. You see, Sherlock. I want to break you. I want you to be destroyed. You need to know what it's like to be alone after having so much."

Sherlock and John exchanged quick glances. John knew Moriarty was playing him. John did mean something to Sherlock. They revolved around each other, they needed each other. That's what a friendship is, right?

"John, you don't need to do this." Sherlock said slowly.

"Sherlock, I can't stand to see you gone. The world needs Sherlock Holmes, but not John Watson. There is more John Watsons, but there is no one else like you."

"There is no one else like _you_." Sherlock pleaded as John went towards the edge of the building.

"There are hundreds of people just like me, maybe thousands. Find another; you can't sacrifice your life for mine. Think of all the people you won't be able to save.

"Boys, boys, no need to bicker. John you're easily replaceable, Sherlock here just doesn't want to admit it." Moriarty informed maliciously.

He was playing his mind games, trying to force a wedge in between Sherlock and John, to force John to jump. Someone wasn't coming out of this alive. John walked over to the edge of the roof. He turned to look at Sherlock; he had never seen such raw emotion on the man. A mixture of fear and terror was brushed over his defined features. He was not hiding anything. He was truly scared that he was going to lose the one person that cared about him.

"John, we can figure a way out of thi-" Sherlock started.

"No you wo-ont" Moriarty cut him off in a sing-song voice. "There is no way out of this one boys." He looked pleased with himself, like he had beaten them. He had won this time. "Sherlock, either you die or John dies. Your choice, I'm in a particularly good mood today, seeing as one of you will come out dead. But I would decide before I change my mind." He had a smirk on his lips.

"Jump," Sherlock grunted, staring at the ground, making sure not to make eye contact with John. He couldn't bear to see his face.

"Sh…Sherlock…" John stammered, "Are you sure?" He was confused; one moment ago Sherlock was forbidding him to step anywhere near the ledge, now he was telling him to jump.

"You were right John. The world still needs me. The world needs you too… but..." He trailed off, trying to think of something that wouldn't come out sounding like the world didn't need John Watson anyone.

"Oh, just kill yourself already! We don't need all this mushy shit." Moriarty barked at the pair.

John didn't let Sherlock finish, he walked over towards the edge of the roof. He peered over and saw the truck still in place. His head was beginning to get light headed; the drug was starting to take into effect. For the plan to work, he needed to still be conscious when he landed.

"Good-bye Sherlock." John said as over his shoulder as he stepped up, very carefully, onto the ledge. A single tear rolled down his cheek and onto his jumper.

"John-" Sherlock started but stopped because he didn't have anything new to say. Nothing that would change what was about to happen. His best friend was about to leave him, his first friend, his only friend.

Gone. In a moment everything around him shattered.

"JUMP YOU MORON!" Moriarty screamed at John. John turned his head over his shoulder and shot one glance back towards Sherlock. His eyes red with tears, such pain was never displayed on his face.

John turned around and looked down to the hard concrete sidewalk. He silently prayed that the plan would work.

Slowly he shifted his body weight towards the edge; he quickly lost his balance and started plummeting down towards the ground. John propelled his body forward. Trying to remember what they had taught him in the army training camp about parachuting and jumping from flying things. Everything around his was slowing down; the air rushing past his ears didn't feel so cold. The windows on the building in front of him seemed to blur together. The sidewalk didn't seem so close.

"NO!" Sherlock screamed after him as John's body left his view. He started to run towards where John used to be standing, but was stopped when Moriarty landed his fist square on Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock landed with a thud onto the rooftop, consciousness slipping from his grasp.

John leaned forward a little more and landed on a pile of garbage. He quickly located the bag of his blood that Molly had set out for him. The drug was making its extremely difficult to properly move. But he managed to get out of the truck. He quickly laid the blood strategically on the floor and in his hair. He lay down and the drug took full effect. John blacked out quickly after.

John awoke in the St. Bart's Morgue. The bright lights blinded him for a few moments. Once they adjusted he saw Molly standing by the door.

"Did it work?" John said quietly.

Molly jumped a little in her skin, "Yes, seeing as your still breathing." She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it. She opened again and spoke, "What are you going to do about Sherlock? You can't just leave him."

"I have to Molly; he has to believe I'm dead. I'll… I'll go live with my sister for a bit." He slowly sat up on the gurney. "I'll come back soon. I won't be gone very long. He needs to know I'm really dead before I can come back." He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Astonished that it didn't break from the impact, he reached inside and pulled it out. One new message. He punched in his password and the screen lit up.

**How did you do it?**

**-MH**

John stated at the screen; how did Mycroft know he wasn't dead. "Molly…did you tell Mycroft about our plan?"

"Of course not… why would I have told Mycroft?" She said, confused why he was asking such an obscure question. "But why do you ask?"

"He just texted me, he wanted to know how I did it." John said as he furrowed his eyebrows, perplexed.

"How does he know?" Molly said, even more confused than a moment ago.

John's phone buzzed again. The buzzing surprised him, fumbling with the phone. The new message read:

**I always know.**

**-MH **

John, desperate for answers, quickly typed out a response.

_**How though?**_

_**-JW**_

**Anthea is coming to pick you up. Explain then.**

**-MH**

He was left staring blankly at his phone. "I think I need to go to the front of the hospital." He said, slightly stunned.

"John, no! What if someone sees you? Or worse, Sherlock! Go through the back."

He shuffled quickly through the hospital, Molly walking ahead of him and signaling if it was safe for him to venture down that hallway. They made it safely to the back parking lot and soon after an all-black luxury car rolled up in front of him. The door opened and he slid himself into the seat. He was met with Mycroft's assistant, Anthea, and they sped off.

"Will you tell me where you're taking me this time?" He muttered, not even bothering to make eye contact.

"Same as always." She replied. John took in the buildings passing him; he wouldn't be back for a long time. London was his home; leaving London was almost as bad as leaving Sherlock. His whole life was here. They reached the gentlemen's club and john slid out of the car. Anthea didn't even bother getting out of the vehicle, he closed the door and the driver drove off.

John wandered inside; the air was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of fine brandy. There were older men sitting on easy chairs all around the lobby. John spotted Mycroft Holmes sitting in one of the chairs. John reached out to tap him on his shoulder but Mycroft caught him with his words before he could tap him.

"Yes, John. I see you've risen from the dead." He said sarcastically, looking up from his paper and at John.

"How did you know?" John questioned.

"You would never leave my younger brother." He stressed the last two words, adding venom into the words.

"I just did." John corrected, he looked above Mycroft's still sitting head; the Army doctor didn't want to face another Holmes for a long time.

"But not permanently. You plan on going back. You could never leave him forever." Mycroft said smoothly. John was perplexed; Mycroft would have passed for telepathic with the information he somehow possessed. "I would imagine you're not staying in London."

"I'm going to go see if I can stay at my sister's. Maybe I'll come back one day, not anytime soon though." John stated. Who knows if he would ever come back. John just wanted to leave already. The pain of the city, of possibly seeing his best friend, alone again, was too much. "I had a will. I left everything to Sherlock. I know there isn't much." He said trailing off.

"I'll make sure your will is carried through." Mycroft said, not sounding very convincing.

"Please Mycroft; I want him to know, even if he doesn't realize it, how much I cared." John plead.

"John, you have my word. It will be done."


	2. Funeral

Authors Note: Hey! So I'm actually proud that I got this done as soon as I did. Ok so I really want to thank Jemma for being actually the best beta in the entire world. Shhhhh just yes.

P.s. I like reviews

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"Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbyes. John Watson will be missed very much. For his end to come in such a way is a tragedy." The speaker paused, looking around the room at the grim faces. "John was a man of many talents: from serving in Afghanistan, to being an accomplished doctor, and recently, being the partner-in-solving-crime of famed detective Sherlock Holmes." He continued to speak about John's life; how he was loved, his tragic death. Normal funeral jab.

The funeral was held in a dingy old room that hadn't been refurnished since the late 70s'. The carpet had been worn down to the point where you could feel the wood underneath. The rows of benches had outdated upholstery and were dented in where heavier people had sat for too long. At the front of the room, John's casket (now closed for privacy reasons stated in Johns will), had bunches of flowers decorating the floor and the area around. Directly to the left of the casket, a large photo of John was nicely framed and garnished with a variety of flowers. The Podium was strategically placed directly to the right of the picture of John.

Sherlock tuned him out when the man had begun to speak. He vaguely acknowledged that this was something he should have been paying attention to. His eyes wandered around the room (which was hard to do from the front of the room; John's mother insisted he sit with her) quickly making small deductions about the various faces who somehow connected their mediocre lives to John's life. Some were familiar: Molly, and her box of tissues, was a sniveling mess. Sally and Anderson turned up, most likely because DI Lestrade forced them.

Greg was trying his hardest to keep a straight face. His complexion had become pallid in the week since John's death. Obviously deprived of sleep, working overtime, trying to keep up with his bills on his own. Next to him were some other people from the Yard. They all had the same grim, depressed expression plastered on their faces. That face seemed to be on everyone, save Sherlock. The Detective kept his composure in front of the people, but he was broken inside.

He was gone; John was not coming back.

Sherlock turned his attention to the rugged, broken man who was currently speaking, picking him apart in his mind. War buddy, returned from tour for this and then would be returning to the front. Pressured into joining the army by his father, who was an accomplished general. Apparently had gone on multiple tours, judging by the colorful array of badges and pins underneath his breast pocket. His mother left his father when he was at a young age, forcing the boy to drift from his father in his childhood years. Their bond was rekindled when he reached high school level. Sherlock deduced that he was reluctant to go back to the front line; he has the weight under his eyes of seeing too many friends die. Some not in the way he expected.

He got lost in his deductions about the soldier, and was abruptly shaken out of his trance by Mrs. Watson. She signaled that it was his turn to speak. Sherlock gracefully stood up, and adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket. He took the small steps from the front row to the podium. His view of the attendants was much better from his here rather than from his seat.

Sherlock noticed more than just the one army buddy was in attendance; at least five others were sitting next to the one who had spoken, all wearing a similar attire. Mike Stamford was sitting a few rows back; he was sweating excessively, unusual considering the room was rather cool.

"John was an incredibly intelligent and kind man. He was my only friend, my best friend." An eerie hush fell over the crowd when he started speaking. He paused a moment, thinking, and continued in a different tone. "John did not kill himself, as many of you imbeciles believe." He was shot some "_I am judging you, smartarse"_ looks. "John was murdered, forced, to jump off of that buildi-" Sherlock stopped short; he saw a flash of the dusty blonde hair sweep by the window. His words were lost as he wordlessly moved out from behind the podium and sprinted down the aisle, coat flying behind him. The eyes of all the attendants followed him as he quickly exited the service room and entered the lobby. He dashed outside and snapped his neck left and right, as if checking for cars to cross the street. He ran to where the windows of the room were, where Sherlock could have sworn he saw John's head bob past the window. He scanned his eyes around. _Nothing._ He swore he saw something. _Anything_.

John was here.

Sherlock did not go back into the service. He spent the remainder of its time wandering the grounds, searching for the should-be-dead man. He followed his way around the old building covered in vines. A bed of pebbles and what appeared to be the remains of plants surrounded the building; they did not seem to have lasted very long.

He went up row after row; the soft well-kept green grass was soft and cushioning between his heavy strides searching through the trees and headstones.

After what seemed to be an hour, he did not see the flash of dirty blonde hair again. The cold air pierced his lungs as he leaned against a large oak tree. The leaves were slowly starting to litter the ground underneath, turning the bed of green into brown. His mind was racing over what the explanation could be for what he had seen. It was not possible for it to be the dead man lying in the casket, it had to be someone else, someone who looked enough like the one person Sherlock knew better than himself. Enough to fool the man who sees everything. Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He reached inside and saw a new text from Mycroft. He stuck his phone back into his pocket, ignoring his brother's attempt at contacting him. He felt the phone vibrate a few second later. He gave up on ignoring Mycroft and unlocked his phone to read the message he had sent twice.

**Where have you wandered off too?**

**-MH**

_**None of your business. **_

_**-SH**_

**As your brother, I have the right to know why you ran out of your best friends' funeral service. **

**-MH**

Sherlock ignored him; he had no intent on responding to Mycroft's intruding texts. His phone buzzed one more time. He looked down to the glowing screen.

**Where are you, Sherlock ?**

**-MH**

_**Why do you have any interest?**_

_**-SH**_

**As stated before, I question why you abruptly ran out of your only friend's funeral. **

**-MH**

_**I saw him. **_

_**-SH**_

Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket one last time. The phone loudly buzzed deep in his coat pocket. _Once. Twice. Three time. _He gave up counting the incoming text messages after that, but he could guess it was around 15.

He stared in the direction of the funeral building. He could hear the loud-but-quiet chatter of the people emerging from John's service. The people made their way to where John's burial plot was. It was underneath a large pine tree distanced away from the other graves on the far right side of the cemetery. The grass was browning, only in small patches of green remained. John's gravestone stood out from all the others in the area. It was a cool black with his name written in bronze.

Sherlock wandered over to where the crowd was gathering around John's grave. If he left the service, he should at least go to the burial. John was going to come back later; he could not actually be gone. He had just seen him... last week, before he told him to jump off the building.

He peered into the hole where Johns casket laid. The grave slowly began to fill with the freshly dug dirt. Across the crowd of people, Sherlock saw the black umbrella and the tall man carrying it. The man walked to stand next to him.

"Do you miss him?"

"He isn't gone." Sherlock said thickly.

"Sherlock, get it through your thick skull that he is _dead._" Mycroft responded heavily.

"You're wrong." Sherlock evenly stated.

"Look in the ground, younger brother. Does it look like he is coming back?" He said in a know-it-all tone. Sherlock looked away from his brother to the now half-filled grave. Mycroft strode away from where his brother was rooted to the ground.

Sherlock told himself that Mycroft was lying. He was not going to accept that John was dead. The empty place in his cold heart had been filled by something, something warm. He had felt whole with John; he needed John. The hole was empty again. His body was slowly growing colder and colder. He could feel John's presence slowly slipping from him. Soon he would be the cold, calculating man he was before. The man with no interest in other people, filling his head with countless thoughts of how he could find more cases. How he could solve the ones already there.

Finding the easiest way to think clearer.

Sherlock looked around at the crowd of people now all standing beside John's nearly full grave. Molly, her eyes still read with tears, was standing next to a woman with the short hair who was chatting away incessantly. The short-haired woman turned her head to look at Sherlock, her eyes full of pity. Molly said something quietly to her and she turned and walked slowly and timidly towards Sherlock. She opened her mouth to speak, but quickly closed it, searching for the right words to say. She opened once more and spoke, "You meant so much to him." she said quietly. "You helped him so much."

"And you are?" Sherlock spit out quickly, turning his head to face her.

"Oh! I forgot I have never properly introduced myself. I'm John's sister, Harry." She faltered when she said his name, the pang of the loss set in her tone. She looked away, continuing. "I just wanted to say I'm so sorry for your loss. Jo-hn," she had trouble saying his name clearly, something that Sherlock expected from her. "He never said it, but he really cared about you. You were so important to him." She paused to look back at his face. He did not look to be in any pain, or distress.

"Are you going to go and get intoxicated tonight, as I know you were thinking of doing so?" Sherlock says coldly, his tone sharp.

"No... And how do you know that I drink? I told _him _not to tell people." She sounded befuddled, oblivious to Sherlock's deduction skills, even though John must have informed her of them at one point or another. "Sherlock… just know that he cared about you more than any other person in his entire life. Just remember that one thing." She reached out and patted his back awkwardly and turned to walk back to Molly. Harry looked back over her shoulder at Sherlock's firm, still figure.

**Where are you?**

**-MH**

_**The funeral, I needed to see him. **_

_**-JW**_

**John, he **_**saw**_** you. Leave now. **

**-MH**

**What?! I'm leaving now. **

**-JW**

**Best you do so quickly. We will talk later.**

**-MH**

When someone dies, everything stands still. The world stops for a moment, people do not matter. Everything changes. Everywhere that person once was is now empty and bare. Their former presence constantly lingers in the air.

221B is empty, barren almost. The way the space is filled with empty light makes the flat seems deserted. John's space is exactly how he left it. Nothing is touched; all the books are where he left them before making his final trip to St. Bart's. Even the cloths are still lying on his bed. After having John's warm features occupying the space for over 3 years, everything felt strange, foreign. How he forced Sherlock to sleep or eat when those things were not important. John made everything better.

_Gone._

All of it. John's voice seemed to ring in his ears, a constant reminder of what will never return.

"_Goodbye, Sherlock."_

The words echoed in his head, bouncing off his every thought. Making it impossible to think properly. His memory, burned into his head, leaving his face constantly on his mind. He couldn't escape John, his everything. He ached to hear John say one more "Brilliant" or "The was amazing!"just once more.

He never even got to say goodbye.

"Sweetheart, you need to eat something. You're looking awfully thin." Mrs. Hudson suggested gently one morning as Sherlock was lying on the couch. His hands were under his chin in his, as John would call it, thinking position.

"I'm fine. Mrs. Hudson" Sherlock replies quickly.

"Don't think about how he is gone, think about the memories he will always provide." She said as she looked down on him with worry and sympathy deeply set in her tired eyes.

He looks back up at her, noticing the pain in her face. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He turned onto his side to see if he could stop the thoughts. Stop the constant berating of John's voice, his face, his everything penetrating his every thought.

His memories were all he had left.


	3. Grave

AN: I am so sorry that this is so late. Mind you, I had this finished on Sunday and my beta, who I love and is perfect, is a lazy ass shit head and did not get it finished until today.

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As always, leave your tears in the reviews

He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten; it must have been at least four days ago. Everything that was ever important, gone. Three weeks had gone by since John stepped over the edge of the building and the world stopped turning. His world stayed still. However, the people around him? Their world kept on spinning. They had no knowledge of the longing, the need to he felt to see his best friend again, and of the guilt of the condition he had put his best friend in. But John knew he could not go back. He had to convince the world he was and forever will be dead. He needed to vanish.

He would hide; he would get out of the country. John needed to find Moriarty, to outsmart him and kill him. He wanted all of this to be over, to go back to Sherlock, back to 221 B. He wanted to go home. The longing for it was eating him from the inside out. In all the time he had known him, John had never been away from Sherlock for this long. He missed him more than anything.

He did not know how long it would be until he tried to get a glimpse of Sherlock again. He was almost caught at the funeral; he had to be more careful. Mycroft had told him to stay away, but the temptation was too overpowering. What would happen when the longing grew to be too much? What would happen if the longing slowly disappeared?

No, he would not let this happen. He and Sherlock would one day, maybe not soon, be reunited. He would go home. He would never have another girlfriend, not if it meant he would one day move out again. He could not leave Sherlock again, not after this.

John needed his things. He needed supplies. He could always ask Mycroft for new things, Mycroft would probably just try to do otherwise. He didn't need any more questions from him. John considered perhaps leaving London. Maybe he would go to America, live there until his name died down.

John turned his phone on; he flicked through his contacts until one name shone brightly on the screen. _Sherlock. _He quickly turned his head away; he felt a pang in his chest. The name was all he had left. He went further up on his contacts list where the other Holmes brother's name was displayed. He hesitantly opened a new message.

**Can I ask you to do another thing?**

**-JW**

_**Anthea will be by your current location in 30 minutes.**_

_**-MH**_

**But how do you know where the hell I am?**

**-JW**

_**I have my ways, John. You should know by now.**_

_**-MH**_

The army doctor looked at his phone with a perplexed look on his face. He opened the back of his phone and noticed the small chip marked _GPS System_. He grunted disapprovingly at the new learned fact. John stood with care from his seat; he was still in pain from the blow of the fall. He lifted his shirt to see the purple bruises that were starting to fade on his skin. Carefully, he pressed a finger onto one of the tender spots. He winced slightly; the pain was fading but still present.

When he had first been on the street after the jump, Molly had taken him in. She gave him her couch and a cup of tea and told him everything would work out in the end. She knew it would not, everything was crumbling around them and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Molly wanted to do everything in her power to make sure John returned to Sherlock, so they could be Sherlock and John; consulting detectives, again. And Sherlock would no longer be alone.

Molly knew what would happen to Sherlock if John was away for too long. He already was showing it at the funeral. His mind was somewhere else. He was thinking, always thinking, never anything else. His mind was never at rest, he would soon find it difficult to concentrate, he would…

She did not want to think about what would happen to the younger Holmes. Molly would not let that happen to him. Silently, she promised herself that she would look after him, make sure he had someone to talk to about John, about everything, when he needed it. She knew he needed someone, and Mrs. Hudson was not enough.

All she could do now was offer John a place on her couch, and some friendly words of advice. For him, that was the best thing now. John was forever grateful of the of her ease at carrying the burden he had placed upon her frail, thin shoulders.

There was a quick and hard knock on the front door. John, still standing, shuffled quickly to peer through the peephole to see Anthea standing there, staring down at her brightly lit iPhone. She motioned to him to follow her downstairs and to the black luxury car with tinted black windows. John held the door open for her as she slid herself in and to the other side of the car. John slowly slid into the seat next to her, keeping his distance. The car ride to where Mycroft was waiting them was anything but pleasurable; more awkward than anything else.

They soon reached their destination, an old warehouse that was teeming with sewage leaks and puddles of algae covered water. It smelled like a locker room in desperate need of a complete scrub down. John could have sworn he saw a family of rats scurry off in the distance. Not a place you would expect Mycroft Holmes to be. "Well, this is… nice. I guess." John awkwardly started as he slid out of the car. Mycroft was standing near, a metal folding chair directly behind him, black umbrella in hand.

"Just a secure location." Mycroft said smoothly, "You're not under the impression that you're the only business I manage here, do you? "

"I, uh... ok, understood." There was an awkward silence as John thought of the next thing he would try to say. "Mycroft… I-"

"You need food, a place to stay, money, and one other thing that requires me directly." He said in an "I knew this before you stepped out of the car" fashion.

"Yes, and I need my gun… you know. Just in case." He stumbled around the last few words; he hasn't needed his gun in so long.

"Whatever you need. I have arranged for you to fly to a small town in the states, Montana precisely. No one will recognize you there. You can stay there until the heat dies down. Understood? You cannot leave. You will get a job; you will live a normal life. You leave in one week, I will get you your gun in that time, and the necessary items you need." Mycroft turned to walk away, but turned over his shoulder to remind John one last thing, " In addition, John, do not expect me to do this again. Also, you will need to take the GPS chip out of your phone as soon as possible. We do not need a certain someone to dig and find something out of the ordinary, do we?"

"Yes, I understand, I… Thank you." John fumbled. Within moments, Mycroft was gone.

"You need to leave soon, I can't lie this much right to his face." Molly said unexpectedly on the 6th day of Johns stay in her flat. They were sitting in front of the television watching a sitcom (she couldn't remember what it was for the life of her). She had come to the decision earlier in the morgue that John needed to get further away. Living a few miles away from Sherlock, and in Moriarty's reach where the danger of him learning of John's survival, was not well advised, "I'm sorry John, I just ca-."

"I'm leaving in 5 days." He said cutting her last syllable off.

"What… I would have given you more time." Molly said, immediately sorry of bringing up the conversation.

"No, no it's fine. I was planning to leave soon anyways. Mycroft has arranged everything for me."

"Really?" she asked incredulously, surprised at Mycroft's generosity.

"Actually, yes. I saw him when you were at the morgue 2 days ago. He told me I had one week."

"O-ok then."

"I'm sorry to be leaving you so soon."

"No, actually I wanted you out before long. John, I see Sherlock at least every other day. Hiding the knowledge that is slowly killing him is eating me alive." She paused to try to put the next words as nicely as she could, "He misses you, he looks the way he did before you two met. Dead inside." She spoke with emptiness in her voice. John stared at Molly, her eyes focused on the ground.

"That's why I'm leaving. I cannot be near him, not when I know he's like that." John said as he stood up from the couch. "I'm putting the kettle on, would you like a cup?" he asked on his way to the kitchen.

"No... No I'm fine."

"Sweetheart, you need to get up soon. Lestrade wants you down at the yard, something about a new case." Mrs. Hudson said sweetly.

"I don't need a new _case." _Sherlock spewed like venom.

Mrs. Hudson ignored the hatred in his voice, "You've hardly left that couch since the funeral. Come on, up up! If you go to the yard, just this one time, I'll straighten up around here." She said coaxing the detective off the couch and into the bathroom.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He called from the bathroom.

"Just this once, Sherlock. Not your housekeeper!" She called to him.

Sherlock dressed slowly, and made his way to the front of 221 B. A cab soon pulled up in front of the flat. Sherlock quickly climbed into the bright yellow car. "Scotland Yard, please." He told the cabbie, and they sped off. He could not help but remember that this was his first case since John's death. He would not go home to see him slowly typing out the case to post onto his blog. John would not be there to give Sherlock his medical expertise. Sherlock was truly alone on this. "Actually, can you not go to Scotland yard?" Sherlock quickly scribbled down an address on a scrap of paper, "Can you take me here instead?"

"Whateva' ya' want, mate. You're the one who's payin'." The cabbie turned the cab around and headed in the opposite direction. The drive felt longer the second time without Mrs. Hudson in the car. She had been chattering away the entire time, now he was alone. They pulled into the cemetery where Johns casket was buried.

"Wait here, I'll be 15 minutes." Sherlock informed the cabbie as he got out of the car.

"It'll be extra." He called to Sherlock as he walked into the cemetery. Sherlock just nodded his head and kept forward.

Sherlock tried to remember the steps he took the last time he was at John's grave. The dead grass, the older headstones near his. The large pine tree that towered over John's headstone and littered leaves around the grave. He closed his eyes followed his footsteps, taking each step carefully so he wouldn't bump into a tree or a gravestone. After a couple minutes of walking, he slowly opened his eyes to see himself standing in front of the black headstone with John's name written on it.

Sherlock did not know how to feel about the finality of the grave. The cold empty stone did not represent who John was, what his life was. It was a discomforting feeling, standing there without him, as if he should be visiting John's own grave with John. "I told you once, that I wasn't a hero." He started, "I'm sure there were times, when you didn't even think I was human. You knew how human I was, and how human I could be. I'm sorry you died thinking my entire life, our entire life, was a lie." He paused, trying to hold back the now forming tears in his eyes, "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He finished without spilling any tears, straightened his jacket, and turned to walk away. He was only able to take two steps before sharply turning back to face the headstone and finishing his thought, "But John, one more thing for me, I know this isn't very hard to do. Just, please John, Don't… be…dead…" barley able to continue he choked out the last word, a single tear crossing the brim of his eyelid. "Could you please just do that one thing for me, for me John?" He could not control himself as his hands flew to his face to cover his eyes as he silently sobbed in front of the barren cemetery. His shoulders slumped forward and his eyes became red. The pain, the emotion he had been holding back with the people around, came spilling out everywhere. He was alone in the world. He should have known he was going to end up alone again; everyone in his life always leaves him.

Sherlock grabbed a hold of himself as quickly as he had let himself go. He wiped the tears from his eyes, now red from irritation, and brought his shoulders back. He brought his head back up tall. He covered his face with the now all too familiar veil of zero emotion as he made his way back through the cemetery and to where the cabbie was waiting for him in his car.

"You alrigh', mate?" He asked, noticing his red eyes and blank expression.

"Fine." Sherlock retorted at the cabbie's twisted face. "Take me back to where you picked me up from. Quickly please, I have things to do." He said as he turned to look out the window.

"W'a'ever you want."

They arrived back in 221 B quicker than it had taken them to reach the cemetery; Sherlock thanked the cabbie and generously paid him for his service. He watched as the cab quickly sped off to serve its next rider. Sherlock turned the handle to go into the flat and was immediately met by Mrs. Hudson's worried arms around his neck. "Oh, Sherlock! We were so worried," she motioned to where Detective Inspector Lestrade stood, his arms folded over his chest. "Why didn't you phone? Where did you go?" Her questions did not seem so have an end, so Sherlock cut her off in the middle of her last one. "Why didn't you go to the ya-?"

"Mrs. Hudson, shut up." Sherlock said coldly, he did not have time to attempt to be nice. "I went to the cemetery. I never got a proper goodbye." His last words came out as no more than a whisper.

"Oh, Sherlock…" she said placing her hand on the handrail, as he dragged himself up the stairs towards his flat. He slowly opened the door, and hung his jacket on the rack. He turned around to walk over to the couch. When he looked up, the familiar face that had been piercing his mind was staring right back at him.

"John?"


	4. Unreal

YAY FOR ON TIME! Ok so my beta deserves a round of applause because she edited this chapter in under 6 hours (last time she had it for over a week so this is a huge improvement)

As always I like reviews

"No! No! No, no, no! You-you can't be here! Ho-how are you here?" Sherlock stumbled over his words as he continued to stare at the man that stood before him. He quickly stood up to examine the impossible sight before him. His eyes wandered over every inch of John's body, trying to find a fault, something to tell him that this wasn't real, this wasn't happening. He could not find a single thing out of place. John looked exactly like he had before… before it happened.

"Dear, what's all that noise about?" called Mrs. Hudson from halfway up the stairs.

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson…" his voice trailed off as he tried to draw a conclusion to this abnormality. The landlady came through the doorway with a puzzled expression on her face.

"What's going on in here?" She motioned to the seat cushions and pillows now thrown askew on the floor, "What did you do to the bloody couch?"

"Mrs. Hudson, look carefully," he pointed to the space where John stood, "Do you see anything?" His eyes boring into hers.

"Sherlock… Honey, you're starting to scare me…" Mrs. Hudson said softly.

"Please, look." Completely serious about his absurdity.

She looked at him with sorry eyes, "I… I don't see anything sweetheart…"

"Look. Closer." He spewed at her face.

"What am I supposed to be looking for…?"

"I... I saw him. He was right there. He still is standing right there!" He said running his hands through his hair, "it-it was him Mrs. Hudson, he's standing right there!" Mrs. Hudson grabbed him by his shoulders and led him back to sit on the couch.

"There is no one there," she said as he sat down on the couch in a daze, "You need to look closely." She joined him on the couch, next to where he sat. His face never leaving her sight.

Sherlock stared intently at the place that John stood. The John standing before him was not the John he had known; he was thinner, his hair slightly longer, and his face pale and sunken in. His eyes were shallow and desperate for rest. His shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the entire world; they slumped forward and hung there. He didn't look dead, he looked alone.

"Mrs. Hudson, I see him though. Why… why do I see him?" Sherlock, who has the answer to everything but is clueless on human emotion, asked.

"Because you miss him dear, you can't live without him. I know it's going to be hard re-adjusting to life alone. You worked so hard to let him into your life, and suddenly he's just gone. This is going to be hard, but I know, Sherlock, that it will be alright." She grabbed his hand, as he was still staring into the empty space where "John" stood.

Sherlock concentrated; he stared hard at his best friend who was supposed to be buried six feet under. He went back over the seemingly perfect rendition of the man; he found all the flaws that he couldn't see before. He had been blinded by the pure shock to notice how John's face was thinner, her he was a little shorter, small thing. The detective stared into his glassy, unblinking eyes, and for a moment, it seemed that they had looked back.

"He isn't the John I know. He's different… sadder, lonelier." He trailed off on the last word, letting it hang in the air.

"Because, Sherlock. He isn't real. You're making him up in your head. I need you to really look, because he isn't there." Mrs. Hudson said in a motherly tone, keeping her voice calm and collected.

Sherlock stared once again at the space John occupied. The solid form of him began to fade slightly. He shook his head and the form solidified again, but then started to fade even more rapidly this time. He did not try to fight it, to fight for what he so desperately wanted. He let the pained John fade back into nothingness.

"Tell me again what he _thinks_ he saw." DI Lestrade asked her after she had carefully made sure that Sherlock had gone into his own room to sleep. It had been a task of its own to get him off the couch, but after some forceful words. They together stood in the kitchen of 221 B, speaking over a cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had quickly brewed.

"He… he claims he could see _him…_ He was so sure of it too." She said worriedly, "I'm scared for him, he is _so_ alone." She stressed her fear for his mental health.

"You sure that's what he said?" Making sure, he was hearing what she was saying correctly.

"Positive, he's… he's never been like this. He's always been a little off, but not like this." She had her arms closed on her chest, her anxiety for the man she treated like her son showing through, "Lestrade, what if… what if he-"

"That's not going to happen; I can give you my word as a gentleman that I will not let that happen to him. Not again." He promised to her old, worried eyes.

"If something happens to him…" her voice trailed off, she contemplated the possible outcomes, and none ended well in her head. They stood in silence for a few minutes, letting the sudden realization that dawned on both of them sink into their minds.

Sherlock awoke soon after he fell asleep, his mind could not stay still too long. He stared up at the ceiling in disbelief of the events earlier that evening. Why had his mind betrayed him and projected the false image of John, did he miss him that much? Has he become so dependent on the dusty blonde-haired man, that he needs a fake one after he has died? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and thought about other things. How had he, Sherlock Holmes, turned down a case? Maybe even a case worth his time and effort, maybe something it might lead him closer to finally bringing Moriarty to his beck-in-call. He realized that John had died for him; that he had died because Moriarty forced him too. Why had he told him to jump? Was he that selfish that he could watch his best friend _die_?

Sherlock thought back to that day, which seemed like years ago, he thought about how sharp the wind was on the top of the roof. How he easily could have knocked Moriarty out cold, but he did not. But, why? Why had not he thought to fracture every limb in the master criminal's body?

His thoughts strayed back to John, about the fake one, about the real one. He was dead, he should not pretend that he was one day going to magically show up at his front door with a box of chocolates and expect everything to be better. He was never going to come back he was in the ground. Why was this so hard to accept?

In a last ditch effort to save his sanity, he sat up on the end of his bed. He moved slowly, making sure, the bed does not creak and startle the people still chattering outside of his door. Their hushed voices made him assume that he should not be awake. He glanced over to the digital clock on his bedside table. _7:21 pm_ it read in bright red numbers that pierced through the semi-darkness of the warm room. He was only asleep for 35 minutes, which was not surprising. The longest he had slept in the past three weeks was two and a half hours, at best. He would always wake to the same dream, John's body lying motionless on the cold hard sidewalk as he peered over the edge of the roof at St. Bart's. His blood smeared around him. Then he would fall, he would tumble down off the roof as he too lost his balance. He would scream until his throat hurt, but it would mean nothing, there would be nothing. He would hit the ground, feel his bones crush under him and find himself jolted awake. Nothing would ever change, the dream would stay the same and John would stay dead.

John sat on the edge of Molly's couch, packing the last of the things he would need when he would leave on his flight in 2 days. Since guns were not allowed on planes, Mycroft would send the gun on a private plane to wherever John ended up. The older Holmes still had not revealed the whereabouts of his temporary residence.

What if could never come back, what if he really was leaving Sherlock forever. _No_, he thought. He just could not think about that. One day he would come back, he just had to. He would move back into 221 B and Sherlock would understand that he did what he had to do, and accept him and move on.

Except, John knew deep down, but was not going to admit it, that something like that would never happen. He knew that he would be forced back into 221 B, which he would have to come back because of some dire circumstance…

He, like many of the thought he has had lately, shrugged it off. He quickly reached into the front pocket of his carry on backpack and wrapped his hands around the orange bottle. He felt the cool rush of the plastic as he reached and pulled it out of his bag. _John Watson, Zoloft Anti-Depressants, 50 ct._, the bottle clearly read on the label. He stretched over to the coffee table to the far left of him and grabbed the bottle of water that has been sitting there for a number of days. He spilled a couple of the small capsules into his hand, unscrewed the cap, and popped them quickly into his mouth, then took a short swig of the lukewarm water to wash them down. Mycroft had acquired them for him, after john showed some of the telltale signs of depression the last time they had met. The lack of sleep, the disinterest to have even gone to their meeting, the pain hidden behind his brown eyes. The small container of pills had arrived two days later. He was hesitant at first, but knowing the help that they would give him, he began taking them a day after he received them.

Before he left for god knows where, he would ask Mycroft for a second prescription, he did not want them to run out any time soon. They helped sometimes, but other times the pain was too much. John had to shut them all out. He needed to escape sometimes; he had not left Molly's flat in over a week from fear of being recognized. He would sit, with his back to the wall, head in hands and wonder what he could have done, so he would not have to jump. What could he have done differently? John had nowhere to go, no one to go anywhere with.

Everyone who had ever known him thought he was dead. What would happen when he came "back from the dead"? How would everyone take it, would they be more accepting than he thought Sherlock would be? Would anyone ever believe that it was the army doctor? Would they just think that it was a scary good likeness of John?

John's thoughts were interrupted when there was a hard knock on the door to the flat. He sluggishly stood up from his seat on the sofa, and strode to the front door. The drugs were starting to kick in and the world around him was slowing down, his thoughts were becoming hazed. He reached for the cold metal handle and pulled towards him. There stood Mycroft, clad in an expensive black suit and his characteristic black umbrella. A Holmes must be prepared for everything. Behind him stood a red-haired woman, who could not have been more than 36. She was half hiding behind Mycroft, her face sullen and sorry.

"Mycroft, hi." John stuttered, unsettled from the sudden appearance of the older Holmes, "What, what are you doing here?"

"Hello, John. This," he gestured to the woman who had now moved beside him, "Is Martha Noble; she's here to talk to you before you go."

John was a little taken back by the last of many acts of kindness that Mycroft has performed for him since the fall. "Hello and you are a…"

"Psychologist, I can give you a prescription to use wherever Mr. Holmes is sending you, if you need it." She said as she proudly held up a pad of prescription notes.

"Oh, please come in. Molly should be home in about an hour or so, she gets off from the Yard at 6." He motioned for her to sit in the armchair next to the couch. "Would you like water? Biscuit?" He asked as he walked to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea.

"No thanks, I'm all good. John, come join me on the sofa." She called to him as he prepared his tea. John held his cup of tea firmly in both of his hands as he walked over to where Martha sat. He sat down furthest away from her on the sofa; the sudden contact with a new person was an experience that he had not had in all the weeks since his "death".

"Did Mycroft tell you…?" he started not sure, how he should phrase the end of the sentence.

"He did, I also know that I am not to speak of this meeting with anyone. John, let me start by saying, what you did for your best friend was not only kind, but also brave, noble, and extremely incredible. Anyone to have someone like you should be incredibly grateful. It was an amazing act that you did to save him." She spoke with compassion in her voice that reminded him of the way Mrs. Hudson sometimes spoke to him and Sherlock. "John, why did you do this heroic act for him? He is just one person, right?"

"Because the world doesn't need me as much as it needs him. He _saves_ lives, I just… I'm just there. I do not do anything, I'm…" he paused to think of his next word, "I'm replaceable."

"John… no you are more important to him that you will even conceive."

"No, I'm really not. He barely ever noticed I was ever there. I was not a necessity. He has… he has Mrs. Hudson; he does not need me to tell him what to do."

"John, the world did still need you. If you really thought the world did not need you, you wouldn't have put all your effort into staying alive, and surviving the fall."

John jumped up, fueled by rage, "I JUST DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE HIM. I COULD DIE, BUT FUCKING SHERLOCK HOLMES, NO. HE CAN'T." he paused to calm down, "The world was ready to loose me, but him… As much as people hate him, he is so _important_."

"John, you can calm down. Why don't you want to leave Sherlock? Is there more to friendship behind this?"

"No! No! Of course not! I don't have any _feelings_ to him in that way. Of course I care about him, but in a way that best friends care about each other." He said firmly.

"Are you sure? Your effort to make sure he stays alive and you don't says otherwise."

"Sherlock is more than brilliant, he is fantastic. That was one of the first things I said to him…did you know he could tell your whole life story within a few moments of meeting you. He was… he knew about everything. He knew from looking at my phone that my sister had a drinking problem. He knew that I was in the army by the way I walked. He could tell that you flew around the world twice in a month by looking at your watch. How many people do you know can do that? He was something the world could not loose. There are hundreds of people just like me."

"If you were so _replaceable_ do you think that Sherlock wouldn't have kept you around so long? Why do _you_ think he kept you, as much as this sounds like he owned you?"

"Because… because…" The sudden realization hit him like a ton of bricks, "to him I'm irreplaceable."

"Exactly! I am guessing that you are the center of his entire world. You live together, you're never apart. John, you mean _so_ much to him."

"It isn't like I can go and tell him how much he means to me, or talk to him about any of this at all. There is no going back." His eyes wandered around to room, memorizing the placement of the picture frames, the people in the pictures, their positions. The various cat mementos lying on the shelves, the actual cat lying on the windowsill in the kitchen, Toby, he thinks his name was.

"One day, John. One day." She paused; silence rang through the flat, you could hear Mycroft typing out something on his phone the next room over. "Ok," Martha stood up and crossed to where her purse was on the kitchen counter. "I'm going to give you a few subscriptions of anti-depressants; you can get a few bottles so you don't run out soon."

"Thank you, for everything." John said firmly as he got up to take the prescriptions and shake her hand. "Is there any way I could contact you, wherever I go?"

"Here," she reached into her purse again and pulled out a white business card with her name, number, and occupation written in black little text on it, "Call me if you need to talk to someone."

"Really, how do I say thank you enough?"

"Keep yourself safe. Do not do anything stupid. Get a job, buy a flat, and domesticate yourself."

John walked towards the kitchen to get his phone from the counter, "I… I promise." He gave her a weak smile, and took the business card and prescription papers from her hand. "Thank you."

"You are welcome. John, one last question. How long have you had that limp?"

"What limp? I don't have a limp." He looked at her with surprise, as if she had just told him that his worst nightmare was standing outside the door.

"Yes, its small, but its there. Did you hurt yourself when… it happened?"

"Nothing more than some bruises…" he was taking obvious care to cover the recurring limp. He was scared that this would happen again, he knew it was going to happen again.

"Well, I want you to call me next week. Ok?"

"Ok." He led her to the front door, and close after found Mycroft following directly behind her. John pulled him back before he could leave the flat.

"Wait for me downstairs." Mycroft called as Martha shot him a puzzled look. She gave him a quick nod and continued down the stairs.

"Yes, John?"

"Thank you."

"It is my pleasure. You seemed like you needed someone to talk to… I didn't think Molly or I would suffice."

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you doing all of this for me?" His question was genuine; this had questioned him since Mycroft had said he had already arranged plans for his departure.

"Can't I do it to leave you with a good impression of me for future reference?"

"That doesn't seem like a good enough motive."

"Because, you see John, I need to know that you are safe. I would never forgive myself if I were the cause of my brother's ultimate demise."

"You can't care for him that much… can you?"

"I secretly care for him, he may not know it but I do. I know, deep down inside, maybe deeper than he is aware of, he is fond of me too."

"I… I didn't know. Wow, Mycroft."

"Yes, so you see, I cannot simply leave you to go God only knows where."

"That's actually thoughtful."

"I am a man of many sides, not just the ones you know." Mycroft turned on his heal as he so often did, kicked his umbrella so it swung up and down to land under his arm, and continued out the door.

-  
Mrs. Hudson turned her head sharply as she heard the ruffle of bed sheets coming from Sherlock's room; she knew his rest was going to be short-lived. Just this once couldn't he have forced himself to stay asleep?  
"Is he up again already?" Lestrade asked her as he reached towards the plate of biscuits she had placed in the middle of the table for them to share, even though Lestrade was doing all the eating.  
"He hasn't slept much since…" she trailed off, not feeling the need necessary to complete her sentence.  
"Isn't that, you know, unhealthy?" Lestrade asked in an unimpressed tone.  
"He's been sleeping close to this for years. Just now the sleeping is less than it was before."  
"Can't you… talk to him?" he suggested.  
"I've literally forced him into his bedroom, but three or four minutes later he just comes back out in his bathrobe." There was a creak in a floorboard in some distant part of the flat. The pair jerked their heads up and turned them in the direction the sound was coming from. Sherlock emerged from around the corner, still in his suit from earlier. It seems he didn't even bother to change out of his clothes before he fell asleep.  
"Ah, Detective Inspector, you are still here." Sherlock acknowledged as he walked sluggishly into the kitchen.  
"Yes, and I was just heading out now." The DI rushed as he grabbed his coat from the chair next to him. He turned towards Mrs. Hudson, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for the tea, it was lovely." Then towards Sherlock, "Take care of yourself Sherlock." Then he turned and hurried out of the door, feeling as if he was now intruding on personal matters.  
Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson and gave her a tired look, "Is there any tea left?" he asked.  
"There is always enough." She said as she went over to pour him a cup. She handed it to him with careful hands.  
"Thank you." Sherlock started, he paused to take a sip of his tea. The minutes dragged on and Mrs. Hudson took a seat next to him, he looked up from his glass and straight into her eyes, "Do _you_ think I am going to be… okay?" he asked cautiously.  
"Oh, Sweetheart," She began as the landlady rose from her chair and crossed to where her tenant was sitting to wrap her arms around his shoulders as he had once done for her. "Everything," She gave him a quick peck on the top of his head, "will be alright"  
"Mrs. Hudson, I certain that things will not turn out well, in my case anyways."  
"Oh, Sherlock," She grabbed him out of his chair, and turned him around to give him a hug, something that she knew, Sherlock Holmes, was deprived of for only God knows how long. "You will be fine, everything will turn out fine. I can promise you that." He did not respond, he just let her wrap her old and tired arms around his thinning torso. Sherlock leaned his head down so his nose was rested on top of Mrs. Hudson's head. He gave her a small peck on her head in return.


	5. Gun

Go jemma for finishing close enough to the deadline. Sorry this one took a while and is short, the next one might take a little longer. BUT! It will be longer, promise. (remember reviews are nice)

* * *

He stood, towering over his limp form in the bed. "He saw what?" Mycroft said in an alarmed tone.

"He said he saw…" She spoke slowly, dragging out every word, paused, and collected herself, "He said he saw John." She quickly said.

"Mrs. Hudson, I need you to keep a close watch on my brother. He is in a…" He searched for the right word, "Fragile state."

"Do you think he's going to be ok?" the landlady asked softly.

"I don't know, but I am going to recommend him to a psychologist. He most likely will not go, but it helps to know he would consider it." The older brother stared at Sherlock lying in the bed. Helpless. Weak. It was hard to see him like this. Sherlock stirred in his bed, turning to his opposite side. "Shhh, Mycroft, he might wake up. This is the longest he's slept in weeks."

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. I must stay until he wakes up. It is of dire emergency." His voice was cool and demanding, stating his dominance.

"You may stay as long as necessary. I'll go fix you a cuppa', but just this once. I'm not thei-his housekeeper." She said as she turned and started walking toward the kitchen.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He quietly said to himself as he continued to stare at the sleeping form of his brother in the bed. He watched the slow but steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, his tousled black hair, and his sunken in face. He was the spitting image of their mother and Mycroft was their father. They had been their parental count parts all their lives. Sherlock, like his mother, has always been more curious, interested in the way people work. Mycroft has always been in charge, has always been ready to lead in world domination if that is what needed to be done.

Their parents were not around much when they were younger; they were distant from their children. Leaving them to learn how to grow up on their own. Mycroft tried to recall the last time he spoke directly to either of his parents. He couldn't think of any time in the last 5 years. He wonders how their faces have changed, what they do with themselves with the boys gone and their bones growing old.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted his thoughts when she called from the other room, "Tea's done, it's on the counter if you would care for a cup." He took one last look at his brother and turned to walk steadily out of the room.

"Here you go," she handed him a fine glass cup, "Sit, please." Her voice was kind and inviting, she motioned him over to the sitting room, and into John's old chair.

"Thank you for the tea." There was a sharp silence, ringing in their ears. Finally, Mrs. Hudson breaks the cold, empty silence.

"Why do you need to stay and wait for Sherlock to wake up?" She questioned him.

"That's confidential business, Mrs. Hudson."

"Understood," She stood up and patted him on his knee, "I'll just leave you to yourself then." He was left alone with his thoughts. Nothing of John's seemed to be touched, it looked like he was at work, soon to come back to his flat and see his flat mate still undressed and searching for a new case. The last book that John had read the day before, still sitting on the table next to his chair. His jacket, still hanging on the coat rack by the front door. The little thing that marked the space as John's, his papers still sitting on the desk. Nothing was moved, nothing was touched. Sherlock could not let go, he could not accept that he was gone; he seemed to just expect him to walk through the door, and make known that he has come home for the day. Sherlock would come out, and john would ask if there were any progress on the case, they would be working on now. Sherlock would report his progress and John would open his computer and type the most recent findings into a new blog post. This was their life, and it seemed Sherlock intended to keep it that way, even when the other half of the puzzle was missing.

Suddenly, the door to Sherlock's bedroom opened and Mycroft was propelled back into reality. His brother had managed to put on a shirt and pajamas pants, as well as his bathrobe. His hair even more tousled and messy, he scratched his head and wandered over to where Mycroft sat. He looked up with confusion, "What do you want?" he asked coldly.

"Someone is grumpy, have a nice sleep?"

"It was too long, I was afraid Mrs. Hudson would yell at me if I slept any less."

"Wise choice." There was a silence, much like the one before, between the brothers; awkward and empty, ringing in their ears. Sherlock sluggishly dragged himself into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea as well.

"You never answered my question, why are you here?" He repeated from the kitchen.

"You are in possession of some things that you are not registered to keep."

"What might that be?" The tall man asked, confused.

"I require John's old handgun. You are not registered by the state to be in possession of such a weapon, and I have come to collect it."

"Why would I give it to you?" he said as he made his way to his armchair, opposite his brother. "Shouldn't someone who manages gun regulation be collecting the gun?"

"Yes, but seeing as you would most likely not listen to them, I am here instead."

"No." He muttered as he quietly sipped his tea.

"Sherlock, I will forcibly take it from you if necessary."

"But why do you even need it?"

"You are unauthorized to be in possession of this item. I would prefer you didn't go to a federal prison." Mycroft spat at him in an authoritative tone.

"Fine." Sherlock spat back at him, "That wouldn't be ideal." He stood up from his seat, and walked toward the stairs.

"Where are you going?" The older brother questioned him.

"You wanted the gun, I am getting the gun." He sarcastically replied.

Mycroft's face was struck with amazement; he did not expect Sherlock to be so compliant. Sherlock grudgingly walked up the stairs to John's flat. The steps had begun to cover in dust, his footsteps leaving their imprints. He took a deep breath before entering the flat; he had only gone into it on two separate occasions before. Once right after John died to see if he was just joking, and he was praying this time he would be there. Maybe he had changed his mind and came back. Back from the dead that is.

He slowly pushed the door open; hinges creaking when it he pushed. Slowly putting one foot through the threshold of the doorway, the flat was cold. Uninhabited. Empty. His eyes searched over the furniture, taking in what he could about his dead flat mate, There was nothing he did not know. The familiar cane rested in the corner near the window, the sun glinting off the cold unused metal. Johns flat was empty, even with the lack of human warmth, there was a lack of furniture in the flat. Just a couch, and down the hallway, His bedroom with a bed and a bedside table. He turned himself in a complete circle, examining every inch.

Flash.

Sherlock spun his head around; trying to follow what appeared in the corner of his eye. Oh, no. Please not again. He thought. The detective rushed to John's bedroom and to his bedside table. Not to his surprise, the gun was nicely resting in its secure spot in the drawer. He reached in and wrapped his long fingers over the cold rough handle of the gun, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Cold. Unused. He had not thought about suicide before, never needed to. He knew he was far superior to everyone around him. But now, he felt weak, alone. The thought flashed through his head, the thought of being with John again, to be forever with the one person who gave a rat's arse if he ate his lunch or not. The thought of being there, and not here alone, was comforting. An unrealistic dream.

"Sherlock! Hurry up! I haven't got all day for this nonsense!" Mycroft called from the flat downstairs. The sudden voice brought him back into reality. He spun around to face where the voice was coming from. He looked down at the gun in his hands, suddenly remembering the reason he had come up in the beginning, and rushed out of the flat. He propelled himself out of the doorway, and down the steps, making his presence known to the others in his own flat. He lunged himself into the open doorway, slightly out of breath. "What took you so long? You were there for 15 minutes." He stared at him puzzled.

"I got…" he paused, "sidetracked." He finally said. Sherlock began placed the gun in Mycroft's large hand, but was stopped, by another hand. He whipped his head up to see the dusty blonde again, not as pale as the last time. "I… I thought… I thought we…" He stuttered as he retracted from Mycroft's hand, pulling the gun back with him.

"Sherlock! What is going on?"

"He's right behind you!" He pointed to the empty space over Mycroft's right shoulder.

"Is this… Do you see him again?" Sherlock remained silent as he continued to stare at the space. "Answer me Sherlock! Do. You. See. Him." Mycroft asked his words forceful and demanding.

"Yes." He answered softly. "Mycroft why is this happening?" he pleaded at his brother for an answer he didn't know. John slowly moved around Mycroft, and towards Sherlock. Sherlock noticed and turned his attention from his brother towards the dead man, "You… You can't be here. You need to leave." He persuasively asked him.

"I'm not going anywhere." His voice was not the same, it was cold. A shiver was sent down Sherlock spine when John opened his mouth to begin speaking. "Why Sherlock? Why did you tell me to jump? Why couldn't we have destroyed Moriarty together, like always?"

Sherlock was backing away more now, putting three or four feet between him and the "ghost". "You aren't real. I know you are not." John looked confused, his head cocked to the side.

"What do you mean, I'm not real? I am as real as you make me." His voice reminded him of fingernails against a chalkboard, unnerving and terrifying.

"That's what…. That is what they say… they say you aren't real. You're just in my head." Sherlock was terrified, his own head was coming back to hurt him.

"Sherlock! Listen to me for once in your life!" Mycroft pushed through John's form, "I am real. This," he waved his hand at the air, "Is not."

"Don't listen to him, Sherlock. You have never liked him anyways. Why would you start now?" John muttered as he slowly paced around the unknowing Mycroft. "Don't, Sherlock. Don't give him the gun. Do you really want to give away more of me? To have my memory slowly begin to fade, more and more. Soon, I'll be nothing but a passing memory, nothing."

"Take it." Sherlock barked at Mycroft as he shoved the gun into his chest and stormed to the couch.

"What happened, Sherlock?" He said as he followed Sherlock to the couch.

"A second time. He keeps coming when I need him most. I was giving away one of his possessions, he did not seem to like that." Sherlock turned to lie on his back; he placed his hands together underneath his chin, what John used to call his "thinking pose". The thoughts began to pour in, what if he was developing schizophrenia; adults can develop it in their mid to late twenties. It was possible for him to develop the disorder. Unlikely, but possible. He pushed that theory off to the side. He moved onto post traumatic stress disorder, was this even traumatic enough to trigger this intense of a symptom? Possibly, this seemed more likely than the schizophrenia. That thought joined the other on the side of his head. He sorted through numerous mental disorders; none had the exact symptoms that he was suffering from. He thought over that again; was he really suffering. All he wanted was for his John to come back, and here he was. Well, not exactly, but close enough to give Sherlock the company he had grown accustomed to.

He felt a pang in his stomach, and was propelled back into reality. He surveyed his surroundings to see that outside the flat had grown completely dark. He jerked his head to the clock on the wall to see it read 8:45. He could not recall what time he had woken up, or the time Mycroft had left, but he can conclude he had been thinking for well over 7 hours.

He felt the pang in his stomach again, this time it hurt him a little more. He recognized it as a hunger pain and pushed it away. Food dulls the mind and he needed to think. The pain, it clears his mind, makes it easier. He could work better on an empty stomach. He might need to run down to the corner store and buy nicotine patches, speed his thinking process up. No, the last time he used the patches, John had gotten mad at him. It did not seem right to use them now. However... John was not here. He would never know, right?

No. No, he could not live with the guilt; he just could not do that. He heard the downstairs front door open and close softly, obviously to not disturb the inhabitants of 221B. What day of the week was it? Wednesday? Maybe Tuesday, people would be asleep by now if it were a Tuesday night. The sound of soft footsteps came closer up the stairs and ended in front of the door to his flat. Mrs. Hudson quietly opened and closed the front door, carrying 2 large brown paper bags in her arms, "Oh, it's nice to see you awake," she balanced the two bags as she wobbled over to the kitchen, "I was getting myself some groceries and thought I'd pick you up some, maybe cook you a nice real dinner. Would you like that, Sherlock?"

He felt the pang in his stomach when she started mentioning the food, maybe dinner would do his some good this time, "That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson."

"I've never seen you so willing to accept food," she sounded surprised, "what's the occasion?" she joked at him.

"I haven't come to a conclusion why exactly I am having these false images of John projected into my mind, food couldn't hurt?" he was starting to get more comfortable saying his name, only wincing slightly as it slide of his tongue.

"Good food never hurt anyone." She said with a smile, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but she shushed him, "Not a word out of you." He sat down next to her as she began to unload the items from the bags. The landlady leaned forward and hugged him from behind, in the way a mother would hug her son, warm and inviting.


	6. MOVING

Recently I got my invitation to AO3, I will be using that for now on. All updates will be there.

My AO3 page can be found at

/users/tomhiddlesbitch

Thanks

~Rachel


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